


I will follow you into the dark

by AnguaLupin



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Afterlife, Canon Compliant, Canon Era, Canonical Character Death, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-20
Updated: 2013-09-26
Packaged: 2017-12-27 02:35:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,050
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/973268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AnguaLupin/pseuds/AnguaLupin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras is denied heaven. Grantaire is not.</p><p>But Grantaire will always follow Enjolras, and purgatory is not such a dark place, when it has Enjolras's smile to light it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> gauzythreads delivered this headcanon:
> 
> _enjolras and grantaire as exhausted, bullet riddled and blood spattered ~spirits~ being turned away from the gates of both heaven and hell and forced into purgatory but like its okay because they’ve got each other bro_
> 
> _(and uh the gates of heaven i see as being guarded by sphinxes replete with Actual Noses which illuminate to indicate whether or not any given soul is welcome into heaven but ymmv igss js js)._
> 
> _or wait FUCK maybe it is just enjolras who is condemned to purgatory because lol he died nobly but also, y’know, killed cabuc etc along the way and grantaire literally gives up his place in heaven (which he earned due to his utterly legitimately innocent and selfless sacrifice) to follow enjolras into purgatory. and there is literally another do you permit it scene and more tender smiles and pressed hands and adsfdfnsdfp_
> 
>  
> 
> And I delivered this fic. (Rating jump is for chapters 3 and 4.)

Grantaire was surprised that Enjolras took his hand before they died, and smiled at him.

He was even more surprised when he opened his eyes, and found that Enjolras was still holding his hand. He wasn’t sure which surprised him more, if he were honest about it: that there was something after death after all, or that Enjolras had not let go of his hand.

They were on a path, although Grantaire wasn’t sure how he knew this, because off the path was—nothing, really. To the right were a large pair of gates, and to the left the path continued on, into darkness. There was light that illuminated the gates and a short distance around it, but it was dim and faded abruptly.

There were two Sphinxes in front of the gates, one on either side.

Grantaire laughed, a low breath of sound. “What ho,” he said. “Has God contracted out Saint Peter’s job? But if they ask us riddles, I shall say, ‘a man’, for what is man but a plucked chicken, and spring chickens are like spring lambs, a sop for our sins, for what is a lamb but the Son of God.”

“Grantaire,” said Enjolras, staring straight ahead, “do shut up.”

It was not Enjolras’s words that silenced him, but the pressure of his hand.

Enjolras led them towards the gate, although Grantaire was wondering if that was the best idea. The Sphinxes _might_ be statues, but Grantaire was willing to bet they weren’t. Still, he was unwilling to give up the feeling of Enjolras’s hand in his, so he followed where Enjolras led. As he always had.

When they reached the gate, Enjolras dropped his hand. Grantaire had only the briefest moment to regret the loss, before Enjolras stepped forward, and as both Sphinxes turned to look at him – _so not statues then_ , Grantaire thought – he stopped and looked at both of them, head held high.

“Pardon me,” Enjolras said, “but do we go through the gates here, or do we go down the path?”

“Step forward,” said the leftmost Sphinx.

“And be judged,” said the rightmost Sphinx.

Enjolras stepped forward again, and both Sphinxes lowered their heads. Grantaire was reminded of nothing more than enormous stone dogs, sniffing at Enjolras, except that dogs did not usually evoke in him a feeling of terror tinged with awe.

“Enjolras,” said the rightmost Sphinx, raising its head.

“You cannot enter here,” the leftmost Sphinx said, its mane dark.

“I have killed,” Enjolras said. He did not flinch as he said it, or look ashamed.

“You have killed,” the Sphinx agreed.

“Is it hell, for me, then?” Enjolras asked. “You will have to tell me the way.”

The Sphinx let out a low rumbling chuckle. “No, not hell, not for you. Purgatory, I think.”

“I have killed,” Enjolras said again.

“You sought to change the world,” the rightmost Sphinx said. “You killed to bring about a future in which there would be no killing.”

“You loved,” the leftmost Sphinx said.

“If I had loved enough,” Enjolras said, “perhaps I would have figured out how to bring about that future without killing.”

“Perhaps,” rumbled the rightmost Sphinx, with a thread of amusement in its words. “But none of the living belong to the future, only to their present. You killed, that is against you. But you loved, that is in your favor. You are not damned, Enjolras.”

“Only condemned,” Enjolras said. “To purgatory.”

“Only condemned,” the leftmost Sphinx said, “to remember, for a while, what killing means.”

Enjolras stood proud and unflinching. “I accept my punishment,” he said, and the fire in his eyes was not dimmed.

The rightmost Sphinx lowered its head. “It is purgatory, not hell,” it rumbled. “It will be for only a little while.”

“It will be for as long as it should be,” Enjolras said. “I made my choice.” He stepped back, as if to go, then paused.

“The others?” he asked. “The others who fell, on the barricade, with me.”

“I cannot say,” the rightmost Sphinx rumbled.

“They killed as well,” Enjolras said. “Grantaire was the only one who did not kill. Are they condemned to purgatory as well?”

“I cannot say,” the Sphinx said again. “But neither purgatory nor heaven are large places, in the end. Perhaps you will meet again.”

“I would like that,” Enjolras said, and stepped back again. Grantaire stepped forward to stand beside him, and looked at the path that led away from the gates. It did not look so foreboding now. _For a little while_ , the Sphinx had said.

Enjolras smiled at him, and they turned to go.

“Grantaire,” the leftmost Sphinx said. “Where are you going?”

Grantaire turned in surprise. “Am I not allowed to go with Enjolras?” he asked, trying to keep the bitterness from his voice. It would figure, that they would be separated now. He had hoped that he had left his bad luck behind him, with his life. “Is purgatory something you have to do on your own?”

“Why are you assuming you are condemned to purgatory?” asked the rightmost Sphinx. Grantaire stiffened in shock.

“You have not killed,” the leftmost Sphinx said. The manes of both Sphinxes were glowing now, softly in the dim light. “You died for others.”

“You loved,” the rightmost Sphinx said. “You always loved.”

“But I did _nothing_!” Grantaire said, sputtering. “The others—on the barricade—all I ever did was— _nothing_! All I ever did was nothing!”

“You loved,” the leftmost Sphinx said.

“You always loved,” the rightmost Sphinx said.

“All I did was _die_ ,” Grantaire said.

“Sometimes that is enough,” the rightmost Sphinx said.

Grantaire felt Enjolras’s hand on his shoulder, and he turned, startled. Enjolras’s eyes were warm as he looked at him, a softness in them that Grantaire had only ever seen before directed at Combeferre, or sometimes Courfeyrac. “This is right,” Enjolras said. “You died for us, and you did not kill.”

“I died for _you_ ,” Grantaire said, as if Enjolras did not know.

“You died,” Enjolras said, “for love.” So he did know, then.

The leftmost Sphinx leaned forward on its plinth. “Grantaire,” it rumbled, and echoing it, the gates began to rumble open. Grantaire looked beyond them. There was light.

He turned to look at Enjolras, who was not looking at the gates, at the light that he could not enter. He was looking at Grantaire, and there was something like pride on his face.

Enjolras smiled at him, encouraging.

Grantaire swallowed, and looked again at the gates, nearly open now. There was light, yes, but there was not Enjolras’s smile. Whatever heaven contained, he knew what it did not contain.

He turned again to Enjolras. “I would go with you,” he said.

Enjolras shook his head. “That is heaven, Grantaire,” he said. “You have earned it.”

“I have earned nothing,” Grantaire said. “Except the right to die beside you, and you gave me that.” He turned back to the Sphinxes. “Can I choose purgatory?” he asked.

“You can always choose,” the leftmost Sphinx said.

“When the choice is made for love,” the rightmost Sphinx said.

“Well, then,” Grantaire said, turning back to Enjolras. “I’ve already chosen, haven’t I.”

“That choice doesn’t bind you here,” Enjolras said, shaking his head again.

“I love you,” Grantaire said.

“I know,” Enjolras said. “But enough to reject heaven for?”

Grantaire laughed, but it was a soft thing, lacking the edge of bitterness that had characterized it in life. “Enjolras, I already have,” he said. “What is heaven for the likes of me?”

“But it’s _heaven_ ,” Enjolras said, and if Enjolras had changed, he had not changed this much: Grantaire heard the same sharpness Enjolras had always had when Grantaire disagreed with him.

“It is not for me,” Grantaire said, and he turned his back on the gates, and the light. “You made your choice, Enjolras. Well, I made mine as well. My choice is you. My choice has always been you.”

The sharpness was still there, in Enjolras’s gaze, but there was understanding there too, and that was something Grantaire had never seen before. Not directed at him. “You have always loved,” Enjolras said.

“I would go with you,” Grantaire said again, and he stretched out his hand. “Do you permit it?”

And Enjolras clasped his hand with a smile. “We will go,” he said, “together”.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies to gauzy for the glowing manes instead of glowing noses.
> 
> Many thanks to #lesmiseres for help with Grantairing and also for listening to me whinge.
> 
> This is now a four-part epic* in which Enjolras and Grantaire travel through purgatory and deal with their Issues. Also there will be happy blowjobs, I promise, but only after sad ones.
> 
> *very short epic


	2. Chapter 2

They dropped hands soon enough, as the path stretched out in front of them, nothingness on either side. The path was—a path, nothing more, but nothing less, and Enjolras strode forward as resolutely as he ever had in life.

Grantaire followed, as he ever had, in life.

 

***

 

The world was grey around them, and they walked in silence, Enjolras lost in his own thoughts and Grantaire unwilling to disturb the fragile rapport that seemed to exist between them. When Enjolras stopped, it was unexpected enough that Grantaire almost ran into him.

“So it is to be this, then,” Enjolras said. He was staring at something Grantaire could not see. “I know you.”

“Enjolras—” Grantaire began, and reached out to touch Enjolras’s hand. When he made contact with Enjolras’s skin, he jumped in shock – suddenly his surroundings were not grey and featureless, but dark and threatening. And there was a man, standing in front of them on the path, in the uniform of the National Guard.

“I killed you,” Enjolras said.

“You did,” the man said.

“Enjolras, who is—” Grantaire began again, but stopped as the man turned towards him.

“This is not your place,” the man said.

“I am here with Enjolras,” Grantaire said, and fuck him if he thought he could tell Grantaire no, when even the Sphinxes had agreed.

“Are you?” asked the man, but the way he said it did not sound like a question.

“Who is he?” Grantaire asked again.

“I killed him,” Enjolras said.

“That is not much of an answer,” the man said. “I was not the only man you killed.” He looked at Grantaire. “I was a sergeant of artillery,” he said. “I was a young man much like you. I was sent to—to take a barricade.”

“I killed him,” Enjolras said.

“Enjolras killed me,” the artillery sergeant agreed.

“You are in purgatory as well,” Enjolras said.

“I am dead,” the artillery sergeant said. “That you know. Whether I am actually here or not—that is not for you to know.”

“You killed,” Enjolras said.

“I died,” the artillery sergeant said.

“You were a soldier,” Enjolras said. “You must have killed.”

“All you know is that I died,” the artillery sergeant said. “And who bears the responsibility for that? Me, who put myself in a position to die? Or you, who killed me?”

“I would rather not have killed you, or any other,” Enjolras said. “But—the path to the future lay through the barricade.”

“Did it?” the artillery sergeant said.

“Yes,” said Enjolras, unhesitatingly.

“The path to the future comes through death?” the artillery sergeant said.

“The path to the new world travels through the old,” Enjolras said.

“And what is the new world?” the artillery sergeant asked.

“Love,” Enjolras said, again without hesitation.

The artillery sergeant regarded him levelly. “And yet here I am,” he said.

“I made my choice,” Enjolras said. “I bear the responsibility for it.”

“So you do,” the artillery sergeant said. He stepped backwards and began to fade.

“Wait!” Enjolras cried, stepping forward and dropping Grantaire’s hand. “What do we do next?”

As soon as Enjolras was no longer touching Grantaire, the artillery sergeant vanished, as did the looming darkness on either side of the path. If the artillery sergeant replied, Grantaire did not hear it, but he thought the man had, because Enjolras stood staring at the path in front of them with the same fixed expression Grantaire knew from the path to insurrection.

“Enjolras,” Grantaire said, hating the way his voice caught in his throat. “I cannot see—when I am not touching you, I can see nothing.”

Enjolras turned to him in surprise. “Nothing?”

“I can see you, and the path,” Grantaire amended. “But the rest is—nothing. Grey and formless. I could not see the artillery sergeant when I was not touching you, nor hear him.”

Enjolras looked at him, considering. “Well, then,” he said, taking Grantaire’s hand. “We said we would do this together.”

The darkness was somehow more reassuring than the grey emptiness, although that might have more to do with Enjolras’s hand in his. “What did the guardsman say, after you let go of my hand?”

“He said,” Enjolras said, looking at the path in front of them, “that we need to walk.”

 

***

 

A little while later – there was no way to tell time, here – another man appeared in front of them on the path. Enjolras stopped, recognition in his eyes. From the brief clench of his jaw, Grantaire could tell that this time, Enjolras was not surprised.

“Who is he?” Grantaire asked.

“Another man he killed,” the man said.

“A man I executed,” Enjolras said, “for murdering an innocent man. He was called Le Cabuc.”

“Yes, executed,” the man said. “You appointed yourself judge and jury, pronounced me guilty, and then you shot me in the head.”

“The insurrection must have its discipline,” Enjolras said. “You were a murderer.”

“And you were not?” Le Cabuc asked.

“I did what I must,” Enjolras said. “You murdered. You would have continued to murder. Other men would have believed that they could murder with impunity, if I had let you live.”

“You did what you _wanted_ ,” Le Cabuc said. “Don’t pretend you didn’t have a choice.”

“I made my choice,” Enjolras said. “I lived by it, I died by it. I am willing to accept the consequences.”

“Do you think you are the only one to suffer _consequences_?” Le Cabuc asked.

“You are dead because of me, I know that—” Enjolras started.

“Do you think my _death_ was the only consequence?” Le Cabuc asked, voice rising.

“What else is there?” Enjolras asked.

“You denied me redemption!” Le Cabuc snapped.

“I gave you the chance to make peace with God,” Enjolras said.

“You denied me the _time_ for redemption!” Le Cabuc shouted. “Redemption doesn’t come from praying while staring down the barrel of a gun, it comes from changing the way you live your life! You denied me the time in which I could do that! You denied me the _life_ in which I could do that!”

“Yet you are here,” Enjolras said. “You are in purgatory, not hell. You are not wholly lost. You can be redeemed.”

“Can I?” asked Le Cabuc. He turned to Grantaire. “If you drop his hand, do you see me?” Grantaire did not need to say anything; they both knew the answer. Le Cabuc turned back to Enjolras. “Am I really here?”

Grantaire watched the muscles in Enjolras’s jaw work as he clenched his teeth. “Then are you in hell?” Enjolras asked.

“You will never know,” Le Cabuc said.

“I could not have let you live,” Enjolras said, and while he still did not look away from Le Cabuc, his gaze was not as level as it had been. “We all bowed to necessity.”

“ _Necessity_ ,” Le Cabuc said. “Did you fight for _necessity_? Was your revolution for _necessity_? Did you make a murderer of yourself for _necessity_?”

“I made myself a killer for the future,” Enjolras said, his voice sharpening. “Just because the future must be brought about with methods that we might abhor—”

“The _future_ ,” Le Cabuc interrupted. “Is that the future of the revolution?”

“It is the future the revolution is for,” Enjolras said.

“And did your revolution bring about that future?” Le Cabuc asked.

Enjolras said nothing.

“How many died?” asked Le Cabuc. “How many were denied the rest of their lives, like me? How many did you kill? How many did you lead to their deaths?” He jerked his chin at Grantaire. “How many were like him, who would not have died except for _you_?”

“I made my own choice,” Grantaire said, but Enjolras was already talking over him.

“There will be a future,” Enjolras said, his voice like iron, “where no one will need to bow to necessity. There will be a future where revolutions are no longer needed. There will be a future where _I am not needed_.”

“Your death,” Le Cabuc said, “didn’t give us that future.” And he stepped back, off the path, and faded from view.

 

***

 

Enjolras stood for a while, staring at nothing, and then jerked Grantaire’s hand as he started walking. Grantaire very carefully did not say anything, a new skill for him.

As concerned as he was with the tightness of Enjolras’s mouth and the tension in his jaw, it was a while before Grantaire noticed that they were no longer alone. Walking side by side with Enjolras was the artillery sergeant, silent.

When Enjolras broke the silence, he was quiet, but his voice was firm. “I know that it was not only those of us in our willing martyrdom who were affected by the insurrection. A revolution is a tollgate, and it does not care if the toll is voluntary or not. But the future must come, and the bridge to that future must be paid for.” Enjolras looked at neither the artillery sergeant nor Grantaire as he said this. His eyes were on where the path in front of them faded into blackness, but Grantaire thought -- as he had often thought -- that what he was actually seeing was something none of the rest of them could see. “I would have made the barricade out of the bodies of myself and those who fought with me, and had no one die except we who went willingly, but _that was not possible_. The old world must be fought and vanquished with its own weapons for the new world to come.”

“The barricade was the only path to the future, then,” the artillery sergeant said.

“There were no other options available to us,” Enjolras said.

“Does that make the barricade the right way?” asked the artillery sergeant.

“It must be,” Enjolras said, “if it is the only way.”

The artillery sergeant smiled. Grantaire did not think it was a particularly friendly smile. “Necessity still rules you, then,” he said, and vanished.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Many thanks to plinytheyounger, sathinfection, and carmarthen-the-fan for betaing.


End file.
